


Sextet (5+1)

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scenes, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes from the Tritter arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sextet (5+1)

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks to [evila_elf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evila_elf) for the usual speedy and proficient help. I was also going to dedicate this to her, as thanks for starting me off on the whole Tritter thing, but I also made her beta it, so I rather suck at presents.
> 
> For Son of Coma Guy, my fic assumes the ATM scene takes place the day after the evening in Atlantic City, because of the length of time it would take for transport, surgery, prep and for the patient to recover enough for House to talk to him. Also because House either changed his clothes or put on a shirt and has spoken to his team in the duration, and there is no specific talk about 'today'. Although Wilson does appear to be wearing the same outfit, I think (hope) the timing is open enough to allow this interpretation. (And thanks to [bironic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic) for discussing this with me.) 

**One**

Moments later, Tritter came back. That was how it began.

Wilson was still studying the polished wooden surface of the desk in his hotel room, thinking of the many different ways a pen could curve. Outside, the rain had mostly subsided, leaving a clear purple sky in its wake. The knock was soft, and repetitive - a question, not a command. Nevertheless, Wilson moved the little circular table back into place before going to answer it. If Tritter wanted to perch on it again in an effort to intimidate, he would have to pull it back into position himself.

“Did you… forget something?”

“I’m not sure.”  
  
Through the sliver of the open doorway, Tritter inclined his head, and Wilson sighed and let him in.

“I‘m sure you… wouldn’t want to leave anything behind.” _Except what you’re holding right there_ , Wilson thought, glancing down at the envelope in Tritter’s hands, but he kept the thought to himself. “Can I… help you with something else?” he added, as Tritter swept his gaze around the room.

“How long have you been living here?” Tritter asked finally, his tone casual. The manner of his speech had changed, somehow, and it took Wilson a second to realize that it was because he no longer seemed to be chewing on anything.

“Is this part of the investigation?”

Tritter shrugged and smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just curious. Bit unusual, guy like you. Can’t find an apartment you like?”

It seemed an innocent enough question, but then so had the one about the prescriptions, to begin with. Wilson reminded himself of that and squared his shoulders, but his voice still shook a little.

“That’s none of your business. Unless it has something to do with your… case, I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Is it because you think maybe she’ll take you back?”

“No. And it’s getting late. I have… things to do.”

“Or that _he_ will?”

Wilson lifted his head with a single startled glance, and then looked away, but Tritter had seen his reaction. House _had_ invited him back, Wilson wanted to say at once, and it had been _Wilson_ who had turned him down. So Tritter was completely wrong. There had never been anything with House, and it had nothing to do with why he was staying here. But anything he said on the subject would only give Tritter more reasons to speculate, so he said nothing.

“I see.”  
 _  
No, you don’t_ , Wilson thought. He shook his head. “I’d like you to leave,” he said, firmly.

“I couldn’t afford a hotel when my wife left me,” Tritter said, and Wilson stared at him. There was no way to judge whether he was telling the truth, but the quiet sincerity in his voice was compelling. “For a while I stayed in a little room above someone’s garage. And the thing I remember most wasn’t the spiders, or the crappy bed, or the tree branches scratching against the window. It’s the silence. Knowing that no-one’s waiting for you, and no-one’s coming home. The quiet of it.”

“I’m… sorry, but I don’t know why you‘re…” _telling me this_ , he finished, unspoken, except somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew perfectly well. Wilson was sure he’d done nothing, shown nothing, during the interview, but the slight shiver that had run through him when they’d shaken hands had been more than just relief at Tritter’s imminent departure. It just wasn’t something he had wanted to ask himself too closely about.

“It’s a lot nicer here, but I bet it gets pretty quiet, too.”

Wilson took a single step backwards, trying to buy himself time to think. If Grace had been a mistake, he was probably looking at a whole new level of stupidity right here. House would never forgive him if he ever found out. But then House had gotten him into this entire mess to begin with. And there was always the possibility it might lead to a way out for both of them.

“I’m not going to testify against him,” he said at last.

Tritter looked down at the envelope as though he’d forgotten about it. “And I’m not about to let up on him, either.” He set it down on the desk, and turned back. “This leaves with me.”

He was looking at Wilson to make sure he understood. Wilson nodded. That was disappointing, but there was time enough to work on it. Afterwards. And if not, Wilson could always say he had tried.

“I’m not interested,” Tritter said, gently mocking, inviting Wilson to echo his words and put a stop to proceedings now, if he so wanted. Wilson said nothing.

“Don’t touch me,” he continued, moving closer, watching Wilson carefully for his reaction. They were not much more than a foot apart now, and Tritter was looking at him with serious intent now. The power of speech seemed to have temporarily deserted Wilson. He was shivering again.

“Last chance, Doctor Wilson,” Tritter said, but he gave Wilson no chance at all before he was kissing him.

Tritter tasted of mint-flavored gum and coffee, and when Wilson tilted his head up to meet him he felt as though he were baring his throat in submission. They ended up gracelessly on the bed together, still almost fully dressed, the bare minimum of loosened clothing between them, hands doing most of the work. Surprisingly, Tritter seemed to want Wilson’s pleasure more than his own; Wilson thought briefly that Tritter was enjoying the power over him as much as the sex itself. But then Tritter’s mouth was on his again, one hand stroking him firmly, and Wilson gasped and writhed and thought nothing at all.

It was still too quiet after Tritter and the envelope had gone; but at least he slept.  
 **  
  
  
****Two**  
  
  
Wilson was tired and his clothes reeked of cigarette smoke, despite having spent no more than half an hour in the casino’s ‘non-smoking’ section. It was unfortunate that second-hand smoke paid no attention to such niceties. The drive back had seemed to take an eternity of silence, Wozniak’s ghost drawing the last traces of warmth and life out of the air between them. It had been a relief to drop House off at the hospital and finally reach the sanctuary of the hotel room - _his_ hotel room. The one without death in it.

Tritter had shown up not more than half an hour later. No doubt he had still been at the hospital when they returned, lying in wait for House. He didn’t seem to have any more of a life than House had, but Wilson supposed that made three of them at the moment. The implications should have hurt, but only managed to make him feel even more drained. He’d taken a shower to dislodge the worst of the smoke, and when there was a knock at the door he stopped only to wrap the towel around his waist, just in case. Tritter greeted him with a single appreciative up-and-down glance that made him blush a little and drove some of the exhaustion away.

“How was Atlantic City?”

“Oh, it was a blast. Bright lights, beautiful women…”

“And one interestingly dead patient. Guess he couldn’t take all the excitement. Did you know that aiding and abetting a suicide is still illegal in New Jersey? Of course, it’s tricky to prove.”

Wilson frowned, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible. It would have been so much better if Tritter could just pretend he wasn’t out to ruin House’s life, at least during the time they were together. Because then Wilson might be able to forget as well.

“There was no way of knowing he would do that.” Wilson carefully avoided using Gabe’s name. “House and I were both down in the casino at the time.”

“Of course you were. Which is why his clothes must smell just like yours do.” Tritter pointed to the pile draped over the chair. “Strange, I didn’t notice it when I passed him at the hospital just now.”

The silence hung in the air, damning. “You must have been mistaken.”

“So you’re saying it’s just an amazing coincidence? Kid needs a heart, he gets one.”

“I’m not going to discuss it. You can get over here or get out.”

“Bossy.”

“Tired.”

“We’ll see.” There was now clear amusement in Tritter’s tone. Maybe he had just been joking about the potential criminal charges. It was impossible to tell.

It turned out that Wilson wasn’t as tired as he had thought, especially with Tritter kneeling between his legs. Wilson groaned in appreciation and tried not to think about how much more difficult that might be if Tritter were, say, missing some thigh muscle. He had to admit it was good, and so far Tritter hadn’t brought up the matter of the prescriptions again. Wilson would deal with that when it came. Or at least, after _he_ did.

There was no question that Tritter would be leaving afterwards. Paperwork to do, other doctors to stalk, after all. Wilson watched from the bed, sated, as Tritter buckled himself up and straightened his clothes.

“Will the kid make it?” Tritter asked when he was done, settling himself on the bed for a moment.

Wilson scanned the question for hidden dangers before answering. “We’ll know more in the morning. There’s no reason he shouldn’t.”

“That’s one hell of a sacrifice. Then again, I suppose it wasn’t much of a life anyway.” He glanced at Wilson, but Wilson shook his head, not committing to anything.

“Didn’t you have anything better to do today?”

“I couldn’t get anything out of House’s people, either.” Tritter stood up, all business again. “He’s trained you well. All of you.”

“You could just let it go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Tritter paused and looked at Wilson, suddenly grim. “My options are a little limited at this point, and I’m going to have to be… practical about this. Sacrifices all around. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

There was no answer.

The following evening, as Wilson slowly ate the salad he had forced House to buy for him, he couldn’t help but remember the softly regretful look on Tritter’s face. The parking violation form brought back the heat of Tritter’s mouth on him and the sharp smell of aftershave, and the news of the loss of his DEA license was the small, closing click of the door.  
 **  
  
  
****Three**  
  
  
The wind ruffled his hair and blew the leaves around his feet. At this hour, the buses ran every 40 minutes, and he was still faced with close to a half-hour wait. He’d left his departure late, brushing off Cuddy’s offer of a ride, not wanting to taint her or any of his staff with his company. It had been bad enough enduring the covert looks in the hospital corridors as news spread of his medical suspension. He felt like a plague carrier of olden days; to even be in his presence could lead to ruin.

His life was in pieces, blowing around him like the leaves. He’d almost expected Tritter’s betrayal, had seen it as part of their unspoken agreement from the first, but it was House’s attitude that hurt. House had often been whimsically cruel and indifferent, but Wilson had always seen it for what it was - a front, an elaborate shield against the world. Now, he wasn’t so sure. When House had driven up, there had been the tiny flicker of hope, but it had been quickly extinguished. Wilson had turned his head away as the roar of the motorbike faded into the distance.

The car drew up close to the curb, gleaming dully silver in the lamplight. There was no flashing red and blue, and he’d never seen Tritter’s car before, but Wilson knew who it was even before the window was wound down.

“Get in.”

Wilson shook his head in disbelief. It was like being offered a termite-ridden plank of wood by the person who’d thrown you overboard into a raging sea.

“Looks like it might rain again. Soon.” The passenger door opened slightly, and the interior light went on. Tritter’s eyes were flat and calm. Not kind, but calm. The car’s engine continued to idle in the silence. Twenty minutes to the bus and the wind was picking up. But getting into the car meant a kind of compliance Wilson was not yet prepared to give.

“I wrote those prescriptions. All of them,” he said defiantly, but he grimaced as he remembered the hard look House had given him before he’d driven away. He waited for Tritter to do the same, but the door and the offer stayed open.

“Fine,” Tritter said at last. “Now get in.”

Wilson walked over to the car and obeyed.

Back in warmth of the hotel room, Wilson lay back on the bed without protest, his legs spread, bent at the knees. Now that Tritter now had control over everything that Wilson had thought he owned, what was one more concession? If it wouldn’t change Tritter’s mind, maybe it would change his own. That night he came with Tritter buried deep inside of him, but it proved to not be enough for either of them.  
 **  
  
****Four**  
  
  
  
After the phone calls had been made, and his betrayal duly witnessed, he got into Tritter’s car again, because his own wouldn’t be released to him until the morning. It took two unfamiliar turns before he realized they were heading in the wrong direction.

“Where are we going?” he asked, but Tritter kept on driving.

Tritter’s apartment was tiny; two rooms with a kitchenette and bathroom attached. It wasn’t tidy so much as spartan - no prints, no knick-knacks, just enough mismatched but solid furniture for basic needs. There were books, though, overflowing into piles on either side of a tall bookcase. A quick glance revealed mostly texts and manuals, with a few thrillers thrown in for light reading. It was the home of someone who spent most of his life in his car or at the office. There was a pile of unsorted mail on the table, but the kitchen sink was clean and empty.

Wilson couldn’t find anything particularly complimentary to say about the décor, or lack thereof, so he said nothing. Tritter handed him a can of beer from the recesses of the fridge, opened, and he took it numbly. They drank in silence. It was odd standing there pretending nothing had happened. Tritter was watching him warily, noting every flicker of his expression.

“Second thoughts?” he said.

Wilson shook his head, not negatively, but in confusion. Perhaps he _had_ acted too impulsively. Perhaps he should have gone home - what passed for home, anyway - and thought it over for a day. But House’s behavior had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. He looked into Tritter’s eyes and shrugged.

“Good.” Tritter seemed to relax just a little.

Tritter’s bedroom was as neat as the rest of the apartment, the bed consisting of a navy blue comforter laid over a mattress on a low pinewood frame. When they finally made it onto the bed, Tritter pulled Wilson down on top of him.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said softly, and a thrill went through Wilson as it always did, hearing the need in the other man's voice. The sheets were warm and clean and smelled like laundry powder with an undertone of sweat, a world away from starched hotel white, bleached clean of humanity on a daily basis. It took a while, but it was worth it when Wilson finally slid home, with Tritter stretched out under him. He tried not to think about House, or thermometers, and concentrated on the slow gentle slide in and out as they began to relax into a rhythm.

“Harder,” Tritter kept insisting, until Wilson finally gave him everything he wanted.  
 **  
  
  
****Five**  
  
  
  
“Statistically, the _two_ of you will be in jail.”

Wilson looked away, staring fixedly into the snowy landscape visible through the car’s windshield. There was no way out - Tritter had fixed it all too well. Wilson startled for a moment as Tritter placed a gentle hand on his thigh.

“So stop it,” Tritter was saying. “Lay off the martyr act. It’s done. He’ll take the rehab or he’ll go to jail.”

“Why?” Wilson said, looking into Tritter’s face, imploring, even though he knew it would do no good. “Why do you… hate him so much?”

The hand on his leg tightened. “I don’t hate him. I do think your… loyalty has made you blind to his problems. I do think he’s a danger both to himself and potentially to his patients. Why do you love him so much? He obviously doesn‘t give a damn about you.”

The words stung. Wilson wanted to refute his statement, to counter with stories about brothers and break-ups and shared laughter, but he had to admit that right now it sounded something like the truth.

“Please,” he said, and he’d always known, somehow, that it would come to this. He leaned over and kissed Tritter on the side of his jaw.

Tritter turned his head away for a long moment, although his hand stayed resting on Wilson’s thigh. The silence hung heavy in the car as he considered. Then he turned back and shook his head.

“It’s up to him. You want to change someone’s mind, change his.”

Wilson couldn’t stay any longer to argue the point. In House’s absence, there was still a sick little girl who needed whatever help he could offer. He pushed Tritter’s hand away, defeated, and got out of the car.  
  
  
***  
  
  
His phone rang as he was walking to his car, cheeks still burning from House’s abrupt dismissal. Abigail would be fine, but things with House had gone from bad to worse. Wilson knew who it would be, and the caller ID confirmed it. After he had left Tritter’s car, he had vowed not to see the man again, but his vow had inconveniently neglected to make allowances for phone calls. And a distraction, however unpleasant, was more welcome than he would care to admit. He answered it curtly.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Back to the hotel. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I was going to get something to eat.”

Wilson heard the implied invitation, but was in no mood to be civil about it. “So?” 

“I can fix it so you won’t have to testify,” Tritter said quietly. “And I’ll tear up the statement.”

“What? Why, what happened?” Wilson set his satchel on the hood of his car and rummaged for his keys, his mind working frantically. “Are you dropping the charges?”

There was a short silence. “The deal stands until tomorrow morning. I still want an answer from him.”

“But what if he says no? You don‘t have a case.”

“I did what you asked for. I won’t use any of what you’ve given me against House. You have my word. Are you coming?”

Wilson sighed. “Fine. You probably know exactly where I’m parked. I’ll keep a look out.”

They went to a well-worn diner, which at least had the benefit of being relatively uncrowded. It had been quite a while since Wilson had set foot in a place like that, but he had to admit it was a change from overpriced restaurants and bars. And at the very least, he was fairly sure that he was going to be safe from recognition here, especially on Christmas Eve. Any normal person would be home wrapping presents and making eggnog, or at least getting drunk somewhere with a little more class.

The waitress looked to be in her 40s, with a mass of bleached blonde hair, a tired-looking elf hat, and a nametag that read ‘Laura’. She greeted Tritter with a smile, which startled Wilson.

“Friend?” she said, looking Wilson up and down. He tried a warm smile, but she seemed strangely unimpressed.

“Case,” Tritter said, and she nodded. Of course, for all she knew Wilson could be part of a murder investigation. He restrained the urge to explain himself, knowing she wouldn’t care, and let Tritter order them hamburgers. It was odd sitting there under the fluorescent lights, staring out into the street at passing traffic. Tritter didn’t seem much good at speech that didn’t involve an interrogation, and Wilson was not inclined to talk about anything at all. It was something of a mystery that he was here in the first place, but it did beat sitting in his hotel room worrying about House, while people celebrated around him. And the food was, he had to admit, pretty good. Tritter paid, and Wilson let him.

He called House as they left, but got no answer, despite waiting until the machine cut him off. He left a message, despite knowing full well House wouldn’t bother calling him back.

He called again when they got back to his hotel room.

Tritter took the phone out of his hand, threw it onto a chair and pinned him to the bed. For a short while, Wilson did successfully manage to forget about House altogether. But afterwards, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, already gauging the appropriate measure of time it was polite to wait before picking up the phone again. He glanced sideways and met Tritter’s glare.

“He’s fine,” Tritter said.

Wilson took that as a sign the moment had passed, and got up, not bothering to throw anything on. He called a third time. Still nothing. House might have gone out, gone for a ride to clear his head. But Wilson remembered the strange, blank look in his eyes and thought not. He threw Tritter an apologetic glance and headed off to the shower. Tritter shook his head.

He came out wrapped in a towel and tried again before committing himself to dressing. This time the phone didn’t even ring before clicking straight over. That meant either House was on the phone or the phone was off the hook. Neither option boded well. He started reaching for his clothes, attempting an explanation as he dressed.

“This afternoon… he was… and now the line is busy. I’d better see if he’s all right.”

Tritter was sitting up now, watching him pull on his jeans.

“He’s managed this long without you, surely he can manage a little longer.”

“You can stay here, if you want,” Wilson said, ignoring the edge in Tritter’s voice. “I might be a while.”

There was a small sound from Tritter that might have been disapproval, or resignation.

“In that case, I think I’ll head back to the office.”

“At this hour?”

“Things to do.”

There was no point in arguing, and Wilson nodded, buttoning his shirt.

“I don’t know why you keep going back,” Tritter’s eyes were suddenly hard. “He was high this afternoon, wasn’t he?”

Wilson shrugged, annoyed that Tritter was starting on this now when all he wanted to do was leave. But Tritter kept on talking, not letting him go.

“Do you know where he got the pills?”

“No. Probably found something hidden away he’d forgotten about…”

“Mr Zebalusky,” Tritter said flatly.

“What?” Wilson started for a moment before collecting himself. “No, you’re wrong. I _stopped_ him…” He trailed off, not wanting to give Tritter any ammunition on House that might start the whole thing again.

“From the pharmacy. Courtesy of your patient. Your _dead_ patient.”

“That’s impossible. There’s no way Marco would let him. And besides, he wouldn’t dare… not after…”

“He would, and he did. I already have his signature in the log book to prove it.” There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Wilson grabbing his wallet and keys from the desktop. “And you’re _still_ going, which means either you don’t believe me or it doesn’t matter to you what he does.”

For a moment the doubt surfaced, but Wilson pushed it away. For all his self-confidence, Tritter didn’t know House nearly as well as he, Wilson, did. Even House had his limits. And then a second thought, even less pleasant, hit him.

“Wait… is that why you promised to tear up my statement? Because you _knew_ that’s what he’d done? And you didn’t bother to _tell_ me?”

Tritter shrugged. Wilson reached for his overcoat and scarf and slung them over his arm, suddenly furious with him and with House. He was so, so sick of this, of all the games and lies and deception in his life. But he still needed to make sure House was all right, and so he went anyway, slamming the door behind him.

By the time Wilson got back to the room, shaken and on the edge of tears, Tritter was gone.  
 **  
  
  
****Six**  
  
  
  
After visiting House in the courthouse dungeons, Wilson drove over to the police station. He’d known it was over with Tritter as soon as he’d heard House’s eleventh-hour surrender had been rejected. His only contact with Tritter since then had been a single awkward phone call, adding his voice to Cuddy’s in pleading with him to at least go see House in rehab. And Tritter had gone, but from all reports the visit had not changed his mind. During the hearing Wilson had done his very best to avoid Tritter’s eyes, preferring to concentrate on the judge and on House. But now he wanted to see the man one last time.

The station house was busy, but after a few minutes in line the desk sergeant made a quick call and waved him through to the back office. He found Tritter at his desk, and Tritter glanced up, his face impassive. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Tritter got up and gestured Wilson to follow him out. A little way down the hallway they stopped in front of a door, which Tritter opened to what looked like a small interrogation room. It seemed strangely appropriate. Tritter switched the lights on as they entered, and the fluorescents immediately cast everything in harsh outline. There was a single battered wooden desk and two equally battered plastic chairs, but Tritter remained standing, and Wilson did the same, shutting the door behind him. Tritter stood with his hands behind his back and his head tilted, waiting.

“Maybe you were right,” Wilson blurted out after a pause, “about the rehab. But he has changed. He even apologized to me. He didn’t have to do that.”

“And you needed to come here and tell me that.”

“Well, it’s over now, and he’s not going to jail. So I thought I should at least…” Wilson shifted his weight uncomfortably, “come say goodbye.”

“Okay.”

It was an acknowledgement, of sorts, but Wilson couldn’t leave, not until he had made sure.

“He was lucky, this time. Thanks to Cuddy’s… foresight,” he said lamely, not even knowing why he was bothering keeping up the pretence at this point. “But there’s still that other thing.” His statement still haunted him, despite Tritter’s promise to tear it up. He could still see his signature at the bottom of the paper, the one which nicely matched the ones on all his prescriptions. And Tritter had clearly said at the hearing that he had other evidence to tender.

“I gave you my word.” Tritter’s voice held a sharp flare of irritation, tightly banked, and Wilson flinched slightly. He truly hadn’t known what Tritter would do, not until this moment. “I wanted to bring up the possession, but that alone wouldn’t have been enough to put him in jail anyway.”

“So… you’re really going to leave him alone from now on.”

“Didn’t he tell you? I even wished him luck.” Tritter’s voice had regained its normal tone. “Except… I think that you’re the one who really needs it.”

There was another long pause, and Wilson had no idea what else to say. After another moment, Tritter leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth. It brought back a whole rush of memories which Wilson did his best to push aside. Even now, part of him longed for whatever it was they’d had, which had been so very simple while being unspeakably complicated.

“The first time, when you…” Wilson paused, then lifted his eyes again. “You were trying to get me to testify against House. I knew that. I thought I did. But the rest… I have to know. How much of that… of everything… how much of it was _real_?”

Tritter smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “As much of it as you want to be.”

There was something there that Wilson felt he should understand, but he’d never been able to read Tritter at all. He’d taken the last few weeks mostly on instinct against the chaos that had threatened to overwhelm his life, and now he staggered a little under the weight of his own uncertainty and Tritter’s steady gaze. After a long moment, Tritter laid a gentle hand on his arm, and then turned away and left him there. He watched as Tritter went out the door before doubling back across the front of the room, heading back to his office, not looking back. Wilson struggled to catch a last glimpse of his face through the silvery pane of glass that separated them, but there was only his own reflection staring back at him, confusion in its eyes.


End file.
